by Glenn Meade
He saw Bargel talk with the doctors out of hearing range, and then the room emptied, and he and Bargel were alone.
Bargel sat in the chair beside the bed. “The doctors assure me you’ll make a speedy recovery. But for a while there, it was touch-and-go. You’d lost a lot of blood. You put more stress on your body than it was designed to take.”
Volkmann raised himself, then slumped back in pain. The throbbing in his right temple became a blinding ache.
“Take it easy, Joe. They’ve given you something to ease the pain, so it should take effect soon.”
Volkmann said, “Erica . . . ?”
Bargel sat forward. “She’s in a private room a floor below us. The medical team got to her in time. Don’t worry, Joe, she’s going to be all right.”
He saw Bargel smile faintly, and he went to turn his head, tried to take in the room, but there was a fuzzy quality to everything.
Bargel said, “I don’t know what she must have thought when you staggered into the room up on the mountain, but I suspect she was glad to see you.” He smiled. “And she was worried sick . . . you were a bloody mess. It was a miracle you stayed conscious. And then when you waved her off when she tried to help, she thought you must have lost your mind.”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Volkmann admitted.
“As for her,” Bargel continued, “she went through an ordeal of her own. They’d pumped her full of that truth drug, scopolamine, to make her talk . . .”
“Did she tell you that she saved my life?”
“No, she didn’t.”
Volkmann explained.
Bargel leaned closer. “She’s a terrific woman, Joe. But I suppose you know that. And when two people with such conflicting pasts like yours can find reconcilement, it tells me that there’s always hope.”
“She told you about Schmeltz?” Volkmann asked then, changing the subject.
Bargel nodded, his face pale and serious. “She told us everything she knew. The rest we were able to piece together.”
“How long have I been unconscious?”
“Two days.”
“Tell me what I missed.”
It took ten minutes to explain. Dollman and the cabinet were dead, except for Weber, who was in a high-security cell in Moabit Prison. The president had taken over the duties of chancellor, and formed a caretaker government. A list of conspirators was found in the safe in Grinzing’s study. All known extremist neo-Nazis and their supporters were under arrest. The terrorist Lubsch and one of his men were killed in the assault; the others escaped into the mountains before the all-weather choppers landed.
When he mentioned Ivan Molke, Bargel saw the look of pain on Volkmann’s face.
“Ivan was a good man, Joe. And a good German.” Volkmann looked away, toward the white wall. Bargel’s voice brought him back.
“And so was Lubsch,” he went on, “in his way. What he and his friends did for you—for all of us—was heroic.” Bargel leaned forward. “When the woman told me about Schmeltz, at first I didn’t believe her. It sounded so crazy. I thought she had cracked after her ordeal.”
“What made you believe her?”
“One of the people on Grinzing’s list talked. Everything you deduced, everything Erica told us, it’s true. Geli Raubal had a son. The Schmeltz couple took him to South America.”
“What about the body?”
“It’s been disposed of, secretly.”
“Where?”
Bargel shook his head. “Even I can’t tell you that, Joe.” Bargel paused. “The army’s on the streets, restoring order. Most people don’t know what’s happened. We’ve imposed a newspaper blackout until things are under control. The measures are extreme, but we want to make certain there’s no chance of this country repeating history.”
“I don’t get it. Erica’s father was Leibstandarte SS. Why wasn’t she contacted like the others?”
Bargel nodded. “She was on their list but was only one of many. It seems it was Winter’s job to make an approach to her but he didn’t make it a priority. Maybe because he knew her personally, and that she wouldn’t be the kind to help.” Bargel shrugged. “Whatever the reason, it probably saved her life.”
Bargel saw the strain on Volkmann’s face and stood. “We’ll talk again, Joe. For now, get some rest. I owe you a great debt of gratitude. Not only me, but the country. I just want you to know that.”
Bargel crossed to the door and smiled. “I’ll tell her you’re awake. She’s anxious to talk with you.”
• • •
The snow started to fall as they traveled in the taxi from Heathrow, but by the time they had reached the neat square of Victorian houses, it had stopped.
Everywhere white, deserted. New Year’s Eve.
The flight from Frankfurt had been delayed, and when he telephoned and told her he was coming, he heard the surprise in her voice, saying how good it was to hear from him.
When he told her they’d have an extra guest staying for a few days, he recognized her excitement, like the young woman on the beach in Cornwall he always remembered, with her hair tied back, always a smile on her lips, an aura of happiness about her that made him know why his father had married her.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon when the taxi pulled up at the top of the square. Darkness was falling, the gates of the tiny park were open, branches heavy with snow, here and there footprints where a child had strayed and an adult followed. But no one there now. Empty.
He led Erica in through the park gates, placed the two overnight bags beside the bench, brushed away snow. As she sat beside him, through the trees he could see the house, lights on already, a plume of gray smoke rising faintly from the chimney.
There were lights on in other houses, too. Candles burning, Christmas trees winking in the twilight through fogged windows, the vestige of Christmas. Another eight hours and a new year.
A pigeon cooed in the branches above. A fir tree rustled. The sound of beating wings.
Erica asked, “Which house is yours? You never told me which one.”
Volkmann pointed to the redbrick house, and she studied it for a long time.
“It suits you.”
“How?”
She smiled. “Solid. A little old-fashioned. But dependable.”
He smiled back and Erica looked about the park.
“This is where you played when you were a boy?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes and said, “I can picture you, you know. From the photograph I saw in your apartment.”
“Tell me what you picture.”
“A boy who is quiet and very serious. A loner, but curious. And a boy who loved his father and mother very much.”
“You see all that?”
She smiled again. “It’s what I picture.” She opened her eyes, brushed a strand of blond hair from her face, looked across at him. At the handsome face she wanted to touch as he looked silently about the snowy landscape. She said, as if reading his thoughts, “This place is special for you, isn’t it, Joe?”
“I used to come here with my father.”
He felt the touch of her hand, the silky warmth of her fingers twining through his. Comforting. He wondered how he had ever doubted her.
She said, “His pain has been repaid now. And the pain of all the others who suffered.”
“You believe that?”
“Yes, I believe it. Because you stopped it from happening all over again. And now you can bury your father’s pain.”
Volkmann looked at her face. He took her hand in his, brought it to his lips, kissed the cold fingertips. “I’d like to believe that.”
Through the trees, he could see the house. His mother would be waiting. He looked down at the blue eyes watching him.
“Come. She’s expecting us. And I’d like you to meet her.” Volkmann picked up their bags, and they started to walk back across the park toward the row of redbrick houses.
• • •
The
suite on the top floor of the Hilton hotel had a clear view to the mountains beyond the city. It was a cold, clear New Year’s Day in Madrid, and both men sat by the window.
The younger of the two was in his early thirties, lean and fit-looking. His briefcase was open, and a sheaf of papers lay on the coffee table in front of him.
The second man was in his early fifties. His tired face looked haggard after almost two days without sleep. The hotel recorded his name as Federico Ramirez, but as a precaution the man changed passports twice in the last twenty-four hours during his connections from Asunción.
He wasted no time on small talk, nor did he offer his young visitor a drink. “The number of arrests and detentions, you have the latest figures?”
The younger man glanced briefly at his notes. “We estimate twenty-three thousand, as of midnight last night.”
The older man betrayed no emotion at the figures, and his visitor carried on talking.
“But the situation is still fluid, and the figures may increase. Apart from those on the list, the authorities are simply pulling in those with a strong past record of support, so it’s likely they’ll be released if charges can’t be pressed.”
The older man said impatiently, “And the cells, how are they holding up?”
“In the eastern region, they remain pretty much intact. The other three points of the compass are the ones really affected. But the damage isn’t that great. We’ve been relatively lucky.”
The older man stood up and said sharply, “Lucky? What happened, Raul? How the devil did it go wrong? We were that close.” The older man held up two fingers, the tips close together.
The younger man sighed at his superior. “You got the preliminary report in Asunción. I’m afraid it’s the best we can do for now. Over the next few days we ought to have a clearer picture. Certainly the man and the woman, Volkmann and Kranz, were largely responsible.”
The young man paused, then leaned forward. “But something positive has actually come out of this. Something that wasn’t in the report you got. I wanted to tell you personally.”
“What, for heaven’s sake?”
“Many of the rank supporters didn’t really believe we would attempt what we did. Now that they’ve seen it can happen, they’re more determined than ever to carry on.” The young man leaned forward more eagerly. “We were unsuccessful this time, but when it happens next time we’ll be even more prepared. We’ll have learned from our mistakes. You know the Western democracies can’t sustain their problems. Immigration. Unemployment. Recession. They’re already crumbling. It’s only a question of time before we try again.”
“What’s the estimate?”
The young man shook his head. “I can’t give you a definite answer on that. Not just now. But in the meantime we continue to try and strengthen our position.”
“I can confirm that to Asunción?”
“Absolutely. You know we have the resources. It’s really only a question of time.”
The older man sat, lit a cigarette. “Do we know what’s happened to Schmeltz’s body?”
“Five days ago it was cremated. And buried in a forest near the Polish border.”
The gray-haired man sighed and shook his head. “The couple, Volkmann and Kranz, how did they find out?”
“A photograph they found at the Chaco house of Geli Raubal. That was the clue they worked from. That and the journalist’s death.” The young man met his superior’s stare. “You want us to take care of them?”
“Not right now, Raul. But later, I promise you, they’ll pay the price.”
The older man studied his watch and then his visitor. “You’re flying back to Germany this afternoon?”
The young man shook his head. “I have a meeting with our neo-Nazi comrades in America. They’re interested to hear our damage reports and our future intentions for cooperation. The same with our other contacts in Europe. They believe their immigrant problem is getting worse, and want our advice. And you?”
“London tonight. Then Asunción, via Rio.”
The young man looked at him. “They’ve got the preliminary report, but impress on them we still go ahead with our plans. Assure them of our determination, sir.”
The older man placed a hand on his visitor’s shoulder. “I’ll let them know; don’t worry, Raul. And thanks for coming.”
The young man picked up his briefcase, replaced his papers, clicked shut the security lock. He picked up his overcoat, and the gray-haired man led him to the corridor.
They shook hands firmly. The young man pressed the button for the elevator, and the doors had already opened when he heard the older man call after him.
“And Raul . . .”
“Yes?”
“I almost forgot. Happy New Year.”
“The same to you, sir.”
AFTERWORD
In the winter of 1941, ten years after Geli Raubal was found dead in her uncle’s Munich apartment, the Nazi authorities in Vienna issued a secret instruction that her grave and those around it in the Vienna Central Cemetery were to be completely destroyed. No reasons were given, and the order was carried out.
To this day, plot 23e is an unused expanse of green in the midst of a cluttered maze of family vaults and graves in the old cemetery. Whether the remains of Geli Raubal are still buried there is a mystery. There have been numerous attempts to have the remains found and exhumed, but the Viennese authorities have consistently denied permission, thus prolonging the mystery.
In the months and years after the “suicide” of Hitler’s niece, several people claimed to know the truth behind her death, a “secret” that had ultimately led to her murder.
All died violent deaths, including the journalist, Fritz Gerlich, mentioned in this book.
But what was the “secret”?
There are clues.
In late 1931, one month after Geli Raubal’s death, Erhard Johann Sebastian Schmeltz, a fervent Nazi and a close friend of Adolf Hitler, disappeared mysteriously from his home in Munich, along with his sister. The couple was never seen again in Germany.
Seventeen years later, and more than two years after the war had ended, a former SS officer, wanted by the U.S. Army’s then Counterintelligence Corps for his involvement in the disappearance of a quantity of Nazi gold bullion and for secretly transporting it to South America, wrote to a friend in Munich from his new home in Asunción, Paraguay. In his letter he said that he had been shocked to come across the sister of an old friend from before the war; the woman was now living in a remote town in a region north of the Paraguayan capital.
The friend’s name was given as Erhard Schmeltz.
Accompanying Schmeltz’s elderly unmarried sister, the writer noted with some surprise, was a pensive, dark-haired youth no more than seventeen.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To all those in Europe and South America who gave their assistance in the researching of this book, my sincere thanks. In particular, I would like to acknowledge the following:
In Berlin: the staff of the Berlin Document Center; Axel Wiglinsky, Acting Director, Reichstag Security; Dr. Bose and Hans-Christopa Bonfert; the Berlin Landsamt für Verfassungsschutz (Office for the Protection of the Constitution).
In Vienna: the administration staff of the Vienna Central Cemetery.
In Strasbourg: Jean-Paul Chauvet.
In Paraguay: Carlos da Rosa.
Also, Janet Donohue, and Professor Jim Jackson, of Trinity College, Dublin. Thank you all for your help.
BRANDENBURG
GLENN MEADE
READING GROUP GUIDE
INTRODUCTION
In this riveting international spy thriller, master storyteller Glenn Meade (Snow Wolf) weaves a complex, fast-paced story. British intelligence agent Joe Volkmann crisscrosses the globe to solve what he thinks is a drug-smuggling operation but soon realizes that he is up against something much more sinister—a plot to establish the Fourth Reich of the Nazi Party, with tentacles reaching from Paraguay to
Berlin. Suddenly dark secrets from the past begin spilling out into the present, bringing Europe to the very brink of disaster. Meade shows with chilling clarity how conditions in Nazi Germany bear an eerie resemblance to events unfolding in our world today.
TOPICS & QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
1. Discuss the significance of the title, Brandenburg. To what does it refer?
2. What drives Joe Volkmann in his relentless pursuit of justice?
3. What accounts for Volkmann’s initial distrust of Erica Kranz? Is that distrust justified? Why or why not?
4. Briefly discuss what you know about the Nazi period in Germany. Volkmann says to Erica, “[N]o people became as brutal as they did during the Nazi period. I simply can’t understand it—how your countrymen could let it all happen.” Do you see how this might have been possible? Why or why not?
5. As university students, both Lubsch and Winter claimed to be concerned about “the future of Germany,” yet they stood on opposite sides politically. Discuss how political opposites can have a common goal, yet propose radically different solutions to reach that goal. Do you see a similar situation happening in the world today?
6. The elderly former Nazi, Wilhelm Busch, describes a depressed Germany by saying, “Every day there were riots and protests and armed anarchists roaming the streets. No one could find work. . . . And then came the Nazis. They promised prosperity, work, hope. To make Germany great again. Drowning men will grasp at straws, and we Germans then were drowning.” In what ways do today’s headlines echo some of the problems plaguing Germany during the rise of Hitler? Can you think of any groups today who feel strongly that they have the perfect solution to the world’s problems?
7. What is the significance of the “pedigree” that all the murder victims had in common? For what reason were they killed?
8. What is the ultimate goal of the neo-Nazi group? Do you think it’s true that the German people will rally behind them, as Grinzing claims? Why or why not?